


A Decidedly Southern Knight

by peachyfruit



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And D&D can pry Jaime/Brienne from my cold dead hands, And who better than Pod, Eventual Smut, F/M, I feel like parts of this is kind of in canon, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Sansa deserves enthusiastic and wonderful sex, Sisterly bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-03-08 23:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18904744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyfruit/pseuds/peachyfruit
Summary: “But we didn’t die, at least not that night, and there is still more war to come. So why not choose and decide the things I can,” Arya questions her. Sansa feels tears gather in her eyes, but she won’t let them fall. She won’t let her scars ruin the gentle and loving impressions left on Arya’s body. Especially not when Arya is as physically scarred as herself. She opens her mouth to apologize but Arya beats her to finish their conversation.“Why can’t you choose and decide, Sansa?”A partly divergent but partly can still totally be canon look into Sansa, her body, and the love she deserves.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am of the mindset that people ending up together and happy is not cheesy or cheap. And I think that Sansa becoming queen is great. But I also think that the topic of her body and sexual assault/rape from multiple sources is important to discuss. I think that exploring her desire and relationship with anyone (and, in this case Pod), is an interesting one. That love and sex is possible after such traumatic experiences is an interesting and important discussion. There will be smut in the second portion of this fic, which I hope to finish soon.

They couldn’t head out straight away, not with the hundreds of bodies on the ground and the various injured survivors. And despite her fright from that night, her heavy heart, and the instability the future held, Sansa began to take charge of clean up. The Queen and Jon are silent and sullen, despite their win; she doesn’t hold it against them. Bran is still lost within the memories but he smiles gently at her and his eyes almost look like those she knew. She thinks he’s relieved and happy at the defeat of the Night King, but then dark hair out of the corner of her eye catches her attention. She had assumed Arya just wanted to rest after they reunited and she cried a river into her hair. But there she was, quietly pulling along a tall, short-haired young man towards the entrance to the main chambers. And she knew a semblance of his name, a smith from Kings Landings that had accompanied Jon to the edge of death. He looked worse for wear, and though she doubted anything but sleep would be within reach for her sister, she still couldn’t help the small gasp that fell from her mouth. And when she turned back to Bran, the only other person who had noticed the pair, his eyes seemed to twinkle more.

 

“They’re a good pair,” Bran mentions softly, “he’ll follow her wherever she leads.” And she’s worried about Arya and what she has gotten herself into this time. But there’s too much to do and Arya is not a little girl any more. And the way Bran mentions a future, their future, she can’t find it in herself to deny Arya such a thing. So she just rolls her eyes and sighs, she should have known that she would be the one picking up the pieces. She can’t begrudge that, she’s good at piecing things together, having been broken so many times before.

 

…

 

She heads over to the makeshift infirmary made in the great dining hall. She passes by the sagging and dirty cots, all holding men, women, and children. She sees and smells the mud and blood from their wounds. She knows it’s only a matter of time the smell of rot, festering, and shit will begin to seep from some of their bodies. Shaking her head a little to rid herself of useless thoughts, she proceeds forward towards the front of the hall, where Lady Brienne’s tall stature can be seen sitting on one of the rickety chairs left. One of the healer women is sewing up a rough tear crossing her shoulder, the red and pink gash of her inner skin contrasting with her white neck. If this were any other time, she would almost feel jealous of Lady Brienne, and her clear skin as opposed to her own freckled one.

 

“There is no need to see to this so immediately, there are others worse off,” Brienne stated, with gritted teeth as the thick needle pushed through her skin.

 

“And risking infection that would reach your heart in less than a day’s time, I do not think so m’lady,” jabbed back the healing woman. Sansa did not know her name, only that she had come from outside of Winterfell.

 

“The less you distract her, the faster she can finish up and get to others,” spoke Jaime Lannister. Sansa had been surprised how they had walked together from the battle, towards the crypts. Though she believed that Lady, no Ser, Brienne would trust her life to the Kingslayer, a familiarity colored his teasing. Something else did too, something that made Sansa’s stomach drop. But it was too much to assess and decipher. Sansa focused on the smell of blood and the brown color it evolved into after it dried; she had more important things to do. She cleared her throat to catch their attention, so that she could be spared from whatever other hidden emotions they were so blatantly sharing in such a public space. Brienne made to stand up, but Jaime put his handless forearm on her uninjured shoulder.

 

“Please excuse me, my lady, I am surrounded by dramatics,” announced Brienne, in her typical formal voice, laced with exasperation.

 

“There’s no need for such formalities, not when you are injured Ser Brienne,” Sansa started but let herself smile as Brienne’s face grew more annoyed at the woman’s needle pricking.

 

“A couple of nicks and bruises are not serious injuries that need such tending.” Brienne rolled her eyes before continuing, “Pod obtained quite the pull that his fighting arm is in a sling and no one is fussing over him!”

 

That’s when Sansa noticed Podrick Payne sitting on a cot close by, the blood having been wiped from his face but not his neck. He had seemed aloof until then, either he had been given some medicinal rum or he was still recovering from battle. Perhaps she was trying to avoid looking at Jaime, who had instantly made an annoyed face at Brienne. Or maybe it was knowing that despite his dopey face, Podrick was not that same stumbling boy she knew as Tyrion’s squire. He didn’t stutter around her as before and was able to look at her in the eyes when they addressed each other. But a familiar blush creeped onto his cheeks that reminded her of those small, peaceful moments when she was Tyrion’s wife in name only, and before she could help herself, Sansa replied.

 

 “I’m not sure if you are suggesting we leave you alone, or that we should be fussing over Podrick.” Sansa wasn’t altogether displeased when his cheeks turned even redder, because it quieted Jaime. She was glad they were distracted by a red-faced Podrick so that they wouldn’t get to see the small smile that grew, if only for a moment. Podrick who had been looking at her saw it, but who could he tell? It felt like a secret, that she could find a lightness amongst death.

 

Sansa thinks it was the sudden looks of his knight and her companion that he quickly responded to quell their worry, “N, no need my lady. It is a simple pull that just needs some time to rest.”

 

“But you do need to rest that arm, so I’m afraid he will not be able to assist with the body clean up that is to take place, my lady,” Brienne responded softly. They were back to their own reality and any sense of a smile disappeared from Sansa’s face.

 

“Yes, there is much work to be done outside and inside the walls of Winterfell. I actually came here to discuss any plans and how I might help. Or how you might help me in certain aspects, as Lord Royce is currently on bed rest.”

 

For an hour, they made plans on how to dispose of the bodies and the areas they would need to clear to allow for better rest of the survivors. Tyrion joined them shortly into their conversation, having meant to visit his brother. It is decided that Brienne and Jaime will begin their disposal of the bodies immediately, gathering any other leading fighters. And Sansa, along with Tyrion, will assess the least damaged areas to the castle and the rationing of food.

 

…..

 

Tyrion attempts to be helpful and he is, to an extent, except that he continues to be called to duties pertaining to the Dragon Queen and their future ventures. Not that Sansa is left out of those conversations and meetings, but her role is squarely in rebuilding Winterfell and the North. And it is not that Sansa can’t command the small number of soldiers and volunteers tasked to begin the task, but a large war is still looming on the horizon and her responsibility would benefit with a second in command. That is how Podrick Payne becomes like her shadow for the forseeable future. Ser Brienne promises her that despite Podrick’s injury, he is still a decent fighter with his left arm. She also promises that despite his face, he is not as dumb as he looks. This last comment causes a chuckle to bubble in her throat, before she hides it with the most lady-like cough she could muster.

 

“I do not doubt Podrick’s ability to help me lead our reconstruction efforts, Ser Brienne. I’ve known him to be a capable squire since my marriage to Lord Tyrion,” she says as she smiles at Brienne, then at Podrick. She wouldn’t usually be so forthcoming with compliments, but she felt slight guilt at laughing as his expense.

 

“Thank you, my lady. I am honored to be at your side,” Podrick says quietly, always gentle, with a small bow. Brienne just nods, approvingly, before leaving them alone to continue with her knightly duties. And for a moment, they are quiet and awkward as they once were years ago. Sansa isn’t sure what to say to him and he can hardly look at her in the eyes. But before she can take a breath to break the silence, Podrick speaks.

 

“Lord Tyrion mentioned that you were last attempting to free one of the storage rooms of rubble?” And Sansa should really stop being surprised by his clear voice because she has heard him speak, just not much to her.

 

“Yes, it holds some of our larger barrels of grain and salted meat. It is essential to access it if we want to keep Winterfell fed in the coming weeks,” she says with more tranquility, she knows how to do this. “Do you have knowledge of structures, so as to remove the debris in a safely manner?”

 

“I do not, my lady, but I do know of one or two men that do. They are currently helping Ser Brienne and Ser Jaime, but I’m sure they could be spared for this project.”

 

Sansa just nods before he is bounding away, towards the organized carnage that was being assembled far enough away from the center of the castle. He looked stilted in his gait, eager to move quickly, but his arm forced him to be far stiller than usual. She allowed herself a moment to stare at him; she found herself giving her many of these moments. He was not wearing armor, but rather, a padded leather doublet and a thick fur cape. He was still a Southerner, not used to the cold as she could tell when he would involuntarily shiver when the winter winds blew. He never complained, never even acknowledged the cold to her. And in that aspect, he was still the same boyish squire of years ago. But as he continued his retreat from her, she let herself see the ways he had changed. His shoulders had always been broad, but now they seemed to have more of an edge to them, a purpose of strength. The rest of his body seemed to mirror the strength of sword fighting, not slim like the knights she had dreamed of, but the true and noble bodies of men she knew in real life. But she had also not seen him in anything but padded armor or clothing since her rescue, more than year ago. Sansa wondered if he was slighter in a mere linen tunic. She wondered if the dark and thick hair that graced his face had also found its way to other parts of him. Before she could even blush at her own thoughts, a small figure appeared at her side.

 

“Has he become a suspicious figure to keep an eye on or are we merely undressing men in public, Lady Stark,” Arya said in a serious voice. But Sansa knew she was teasing, with her lips quirked and eyes shining. Sansa was better trained and didn’t even need to clear her throat before responding in a similar disaffected tone.

 

“He has gone to fetch men of interest, men who could help clear out the rubble from the main stores.” Sansa won’t turn fully towards her sister, she would lose this game then. “I am looking at the progress of the funeral pyres; there will be too many.”

 

Sansa hoped her grim observation would turn the conversation but Arya was still her little sister.

 

“Aye, that is true. Though by the wistful look on your face, I’d rather hope it was for want of Podrick and not for some strange reaction of the death of many soldiers.”

 

Sansa didn’t know what shocked her more: that Arya plainly stated her supposed desire for Podrick or her cavalier mention of the deaths in their latest battle. She didn’t care if she lost this silly little game they were playing, she turned towards her sister.

 

“I’m not sure which is worse, my sister suggesting me mad or highly inappropriate!”

 

“You’re not sure which is worse, Sansa, really?” Smugness leaked from Arya’s mouth and left Sansa no choice.

 

“I am not sure you should be making claims when you have made little attempt to hide your dalliances with a certain smith. What is his name, Gendry?”

 

“Why should I? Did I not kill the Night King? Did I travel across the sea and learn to kill men only to become some prim and proper—“

 

“No, but you don’t even deny it. We are still at war Arya—“

 

“And what does me fucking Gendry Waters have anything to do with this war?” And any semblance of teasing is gone from Arya’s voice, her eyes hard as steel. Sansa sighs, chastising herself.

 

“I just mean that the world and its traditions still stand.” Arya’s silence unnerves her more than any expletive response, so she continues: “This is not how I wanted to bring this up. I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything improper or wrong. I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were doing.”

 

Arya’s face relaxes a bit, before looking toward the funeral pyres. She takes a breath before speaking.

 

“I thought we were going to die, that what awaited us was the cold grip nothingness of death. And so I went to him out of curiosity, out of need for warmth of many kinds,” Arya pauses and Sansa wills herself not to blush. “I thought him dead. I saw him carted away to be used for some dark purpose after we had protected each other for some time,” whispers Arya. And Sansa can hear the touch of emotion in her voice.

 

“But we didn’t die, at least not that night, and there is still more war to come. So why not choose and decide the things I can” Arya questions her. Sansa feels the tears gather in her eyes, but she won’t let them fall. She won’t let her scars ruin the gentle and loving impressions left on Arya’s body. Especially not when Arya is as physically scarred as herself. She opens her mouth to apologize but Arya beats her to finish their conversation.

 

“Why can’t you choose and decide, Sansa,” she asks gently, as if Sansa will break down in remembrance of all forcefully taken from her. But Sansa does not break, she has rebuilt herself stone by stone. So, she walks away from their conversation, but not before pressing a kiss to Arya’s forehead as to tell her that she bears not ill will from their discussion.

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I lied about this being a two part story, but it really shouldn't be more than three or four parts (I'm not about that multiple chapter life). I also lied about not posting this until tomorrow or the day after, but once I realized I would have to extend the story a bit, this was a natural chapter break. 
> 
> I do want to warn that there are references to sexual assault, violence, and rape. I don't think it's super graphic, but it's definitely there. I also think it's balanced out by Sansa's agency and ownership of her image and her body. 
> 
> (I also wanna warn that I might up the rating to E, because I tend to get super smutty, especially when I'm being poetic. But let me know if you think I should keep it more to an M rating)

She has been so many feasts, the ones in this hall she remembers fondly. Even as Arya would toss food at her face and Rickon would clamor over her for attention. Then they became dreadful games, where everyone would be watching you eat and speak, waiting for you to misstep. Who needed poison when a phrase or a look could bring about a swift beating from one of Joffrey’s men? And though she no longer feared such feasts, eating in public still held her in a state of caution. But she had expected this feast to feel celebratory and how she wished to be cheering as the Wildlings or running quietly to dark corners like many of the Northerners. But there were too many questions left and an unspoken tension between John and Dany. She wishes that Arya was here to dispel it, she almost wishes for Arya to lop food at them all. Sansa figures that she’s celebrating with her smith, but she spots him in front of the Hound, looking around. She rolls her eyes as she seems him get up to leave the hall; she wonders how it’s so easy for others to simply walk towards their wants and needs. But before he can get past their table, he is suddenly legitimized by the Dragon Queen.

 

Sansa can’t stop the surprised expression on her face, a grim one. That the Queen was so sure of her win that she would legitimize him before gaining the throne seemed foolish. That she would ignore whoever might currently be running Storms End so that she could gain an unquestioning ally seemed foolish. That it made him a lord pinched her heart for Arya’s sake. Her sister had grown to be many things and a lady tied to a castle would not be one of them.

 

After the brief cheering, she looks toward the table end that holds Brienne, Podrick, and Jaime. Brienne is drinking and laughing in a way she’s never seen. Her face is free of any worry and unabashedly (or unknowingly) looking at Jaime with a tenderness that Sansa envies. And Jaime seems to be returning some sort of adoration. Even Tyrion ends up joining them and she can see the Dornish wine slowly turn their eyes glassy. Their smiles crooked and their movements looser. They are all laughing at something and she wishes she could be there, joining them in their drinking game. Podrick’s face is all sweet smiles between the laughs, and she never knows how he can always seem to kind. She wishes she could ask him, that she could be seated next to him with their shoulders touching. She wonders if maybe he would whisper something in her ear, a joke or an observation; his breath would be warm on her neck and the wine evident on his tongue. Maybe if she was someone else, she would brazenly sit in his lap because they survived death.

 

But as another laugh emerges from Brienne, she resigns herself to look away. Because there is no point in wishing for things that can’t happen. She is Lady Stark of Winterfell, she will stay at the front table as long as necessary to convey a sense of unity. The messier war is on its way and she has things to do.

 

…

 

She’s ready to retire, she can’t stand the sullen look on the Queen’s face and Jon’s companions are getting rowdier. She takes a quick around the hall, already at its edges, having left the front table moments ago.  She finds Brienne and Jaime missing and Podrick sitting close to a young woman. Too close to be an innocent conversation. She can’t hold it against him, she gets it. (Or rather, she wants to understand it). She continues looking around for the best way to exit, when she sees the Hound ignoring his own young woman. She wants to laugh at both their predicaments of denying themselves the pleasures of life. That she would find herself as a mirror to him, denying physical intimacy (any kind of intimacy), is ironical. She doesn’t know what to expect when she sits down in front of him, his face no longer frightful to her. But their conversation is strange and brutish. She doesn’t care the way he references the things done to her.

 

“Broken in, hard,” he says with only slight inflection.

 

But she isn’t a bloody mare, a body to be accustomed to constant violence. He couldn’t have protected her any better, all of them had a purpose for her. But she refuses to show him any emotion, he’s too broken for decency. The Hound, Sandor, had rebuilt himself jagged to pierce others along with himself. And even in his assertion of protection, he calls forward her many weakness and her failure to stop powerful men in their quest to own her. She glances to the side and sees Podrick with not just one girl, but two. Despite her resolve to be understanding, because she won’t give in to her confusing desires (she doesn’t even know what she wants), she can’t help but be upset.

 

So, she takes control of the situation, takes control of whatever broken body the Hound sees. She takes Baelish’s manipulation, his kisses, his selling of her body and name as he had his whores— she takes Ramsey’s tearing of her dress, the constant bruise on her wrist where he held her in and outside her bedroom, the wetness he left after a final grunt— and she uses it to rebuild herself. She is not that little bird, she is not the naive summer child that dreamed of knights rescuing maidens, of being queen. She is Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, she will rebuild the north alongside herself, and she will free it. She will free herself from those who wish to rule over it.

 

She leaves the Hound behind, leaves the revelry behind, and heads to her chambers to sort out the emotions stirring in her body and to begin tomorrow on a path to freedom.

 

…

 

As she lays on her bed, she thinks of the conversation with Arya the same day they had had the argument over impropriety. Arya had sneaked into her room to seemingly just lay on her bed as Sansa finished reading important scrolls. Arya was content in the silence, not speaking after Sansa has pushed aside the parchment and crawled into bed. Maybe she just wanted to tease Arya or maybe she knew where her comment would lead, but when she opened her mouth, Sansa almost couldn’t believe her words.

 

“I’m surprised to find you in my chambers tonight. I had assumed you reserved this time for your smith.”

 

“His name is Gendry and you do know you can fuck during the day, right, Sansa?” Arya’s eyes looked amused as she caught Sansa’s widened eyes. Calling Sansa’s bluff, she continued, “Besides I already had him for a few hours. There are only so many times you can get off before it stops being fun.”

 

 Sansa didn’t know how to feel: confused, shocked, jealous. Arya’s relations with Gendry seemed so natural, full of eagerness. They were at odds with the touches left on her body and soul. Her mouth ran away from her again: “Was it scary, the first time,” she paused, “did it hurt?”

 

Even looking down where her fingers were brushing the grey fur blanket, she knew Arya was staring at her. Arya didn’t laugh or scoff, she just took a quiet breath before answering.

 

“Not scared, because I knew him. Even after all these years, I knew who he was. I was safe, at least for a while before death would come for us.”

 

Sansa nods, satisfied, but Arya isn’t finished.

 

“I don’t think it’s ever supposed to hurt.”

 

....

 

After blowing out the candle by her bedside and burrowing deep into her covers, she imagines that instead of walking out of the hall, she had gone over to him. She imagines that she made up some lie about needing to discuss important matters that couldn’t wait, and that he would untangle himself from the two bodies on each of his sides. She would have led him to her chambers, no one questioning why a proper lady would be leading a lowly squire to her bedroom at such an hour, not even him. And when she would ask him to not only close the door but lock it, he would obey with a look of confusion. A look that would continue to grace his face until her lips were on his. She wouldn’t have to say anything coy, because she can’t imagine herself saying coy things surrounding her need for him.  And as he kissed her back, she wouldn’t think about Baelish’s dry lips. And when they eagerly disposed of their clothes, she wouldn’t be reminded of the torn dresses she burnt along with Ramsey’s torn body.

 

She imagines that it would be a new body he touched, easily gliding over the raised scars. Would it feel like something new? And as she touched his body, would he also be born again?

 

But she hadn’t gone over to him and she doubts she would ever. But she’s happy enough to imagine herself in the arms of a gentle man.  And she’s more than happy as her hands glide down, in between her legs as she thinks of Podrick’s sweet face. And she’s clumsy and awkward with herself, and she seems to chase some precipice that doesn’t arrive before sleep overtakes her. But she’s warm and deliciously taut; her fingers are wet from only her own desire.

 

…

 

The next morning, right before dawn, she’s quietly awoken by Arya. She’s only a little confused until she sees her clothing.

 

“There’s nothing I can say, is there? You have a list and you think you should finish it?”

 

“I have an enticing marriage proposal that I need to run from,” and she smirks but there is sadness in her eyes.

 

“The Smith?”

 

“The Lord of Storm’s End”

 

“Right”

 

They don’t speak, just stare at each other, knowing there wasn’t much to say, that whatever their hearts yearned for wasn’t going to change her path.

 

“I love you, sister” says Sansa. _Stay with me_ she means. Arya’s eyes tear up, “I love you, too,” – _I wish I could_.

 

With a hug, she departs her room. Before completely exiting her room, halfway out the door, Arya turns, face serious, “At least kiss the damn man, Sansa.” She means she can change her path…she also just means to literally kiss him.

 

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely did not enjoy the way the Hound talked to Sansa, and the way writers made Sansa's rape necessary in making her a stronger person. Or, at least, that's how it sounded. So I decided tweak it to her taking ownership of the abuse done to her body. To make it so that she didn't need such violence to become a stronger person, but that she survived it and became stronger from her own free will.
> 
> Also, I seriously get annoyed with how many painful first time stories there are. Thankfully, in the Gendry/Arya fandom, it's pretty minimal or just talks about a general awkwardness. But I need you all to know that it is not supposed to hurt *ends soapbox*


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait and for the fact that I just upped the chapter length to 8, but this wanted to be a more well rounded story, with a short interlude to include another ship. Chapter 4 is half way done, so that should be up by the end of this week. Thank you for your kind comments, and please keep them coming.

She doesn’t kiss him, yet, because Winterfell is preparing to depart soon, her Northmen gearing up to face death again. She doesn’t want to think about it doesn’t want to fight with Jon again. Even in her head, she can’t find herself calling him Aegon, calling him her cousin. For years, he was her bastard brother, the stain on her father’s noble record. And when she finally saw him again, she finally let go whatever inherited grudge she had against him. His bastard title, in her eyes, died with her mother. And with Arya off to Kings Landing, marching to her death, she would not lose another sibling.

 

She was walking on the rampart, towards a covered corridor, with Brienne and Podrick when Jon makes his way to her.

 

“Have you seen Arya,” asks Jon. Sansa is surprised but her face keeps still.

 

“She left for King’s Landing, before dawn.”

 

“Why?” Jon is hurt, eyebrows scrunched together. She wonders if the smith will be just as hurt. She doesn’t answer him, he knows, and it aches her too.

 

“She didn’t say anything to me,” he finishes.

 

His hurt eyes are starting to annoy her, the way he’s allowed to wear his heart on his sleeve. But she knows Jon has had to pay for his softness and she decides to answer this question.

 

“She probably didn’t want to be convinced otherwise. I wouldn’t have been able to convince her, I didn’t,” Sansa says quietly and looks down. The snow is dirty and packed, it needs to be swept before it becomes ice.

 

Jon just sighs an apology before embracing her. And it feels like it’s been forever since they have hugged, though they hugged a few days ago after the battle. And it’s still strange in a way, knowing she never hugged him before everything happened. She wonders if he feels her body broken and shifted back together. Or maybe he’s trying to piece her together. But even Jon is not that condescending; besides, he’s probably the one in need of embraces. She returns his touch and feels strong knowing she’s holding him together.

 

“Let me know if you hear anything,” he asks when he finally steps back. She nods before turning to Brienne, there are more preparations to be made for the journey South.

 

“How are the troops, Ser Brienne,” she asks gently. It’s a soft voice she does not use often but she almost feels guilty, as if she had aided in driving away Jaime Lannister.

 

“Many men have recuperated enough to see battle again, which is the best we could hope for. They should be ready to leave in a week, Lady Sansa.” And her voice is calm and collected, Sansa greatly admired Ser Brienne in moments such as these.

 

She couldn’t care less about the Kingslayer, men like him always seem to be redeemed and reborn at the smallest of good deeds. But she cares and trusts Brienne, and she knows that Brienne trusted him to the point of intimacy. Brienne’s face was like steel when she informed her of Jaime’s decision to leave. Even when Brienne offered to capture him and execute him for desertion, Sansa knew it would be in her name, not Brienne’s. Sansa decided there was no point in wasting energy on him as he wouldn’t arrive in time to give away any of their secrets. Sansa didn’t voice the fact that she would never put Brienne in a position to break her heart even more; no, Lady Sansa loved Ser Brienne enough to not hurt her. Sansa is brought back to the present as Brienne dismisses herself and she finds herself alone with Podrick.

 

It’s quiet like their first moments but not awkward. They’ve gotten used to each other’s quiet nature and her heart flutters with the knowledge that it’s due to their growing familiarity. She knows he’s quiet because he doesn’t feel the need to fill in every moment with chatter; he chooses his words as carefully as she does. Except his expressed thoughts are not in pursuit of a better hand, but in pursuit of a thoughtfulness. He speaks as if he’s only allowed a number of words with her.

 

She’s quiet when she’s thinking ahead, several movements to plan accordingly. She’s also quiet when she’s overwhelmed. She knows they must begin to tackle the hot spring infrastructure because there is not enough hot water to warm the castle, but Arya has only been gone a couple of hours and she can’t seem to focus. Podrick is usually been quiet on these occasions, but maybe it’s their growing knowledge of each other. Maybe it’s that her face can’t help but portray her pained heart. He speaks gently.

 

“I’m sorry about your sister, my lady. I know you did not have enough time with her.”

 

“At this point, I don’t think a lifetime would be enough,” she sighs, not bothering to hide her sadness. “But it’s Arya, she’s never been one to be contained like a caged bird.”

 

“Is that how you feel, my lady?”

 

The familiarity has gotten to him, with his eyes looking straight at her as the words travel to her ears and she doesn’t know whether to laugh or be taken aback. She realizes that now, more than ever, she’s faced with conflicting feelings. She hates it, the confusion. His face is quickly turning red and she figures that her narrowed expression is not helping his nervousness. She’s feeling generous and she’s feeling open, at least with him.

 

“I feel exhausted in having to prove time and time again that I will not shatter without provocation. As if I will break at any small inconvenience that presents itself to me,” she says strongly, her voice calmer than the storm in her heart. He looks down and she knows an apology is coming.

 

“I did not mean—“

 

“I know what you meant,” she interrupts, not out of anger, not exactly. “But my duty to my people and to the North is my freedom, Podrick.”

 

She feels guilty as he merely nods without raising his eyes from the floor. He was merely asking her a question, perhaps trying to hear her thoughts in a way no one has asked her. She’s been asked about the stores of grain and the loyalty of her people. She’s been questioned on the future of the Seven Kingdoms and feasts that hold no charm to her. But she hasn’t been asked how her role limits her, presses tightly against her chest. Why would anyone care to hear about the weight she quietly hoists onto her shoulders? That would only leave her room to complain and no one would be unkind enough to ask her to voice such things.

 

Podrick is being curious and honest, it spurs on a gentle but truthful confession.

 

“It would be nice to be able to play drinking games that gets one light headed, we all deserved that after that night.” She pauses a bit hoping to reign in her words, but they continue to pour from her mouth, “But even after defeating death, it is not proper for all of us to find ourselves doing such things as laying with a companion or two.”

 

She wanted to tease him, to hold that information over his head so lightly he would have to laugh. But his eyes are back to hers, wide and his mouth open. She was a fool to think she could be so familiar to him, not when her confused feelings are still tangled in knots at the top of her ribcage. What had she wanted to achieve?

 

“My lady, about what you saw that night,” he begins but can’t seem to continue. She sighs.

 

“Please forgive me, Podrick. I only meant to tease, not to sound judgmental nor…anything else”

 

They are both full of sentiments they can’t finish. Or that they won’t finish (because she won’t even admit to herself that she was jealous). She is about to walk away because there are only certain messes she can clean up and this isn’t one of them.

 

“I don’t think,” he voices quickly, almost loudly before quietly continuing, “I don’t think anyone would begrudge you a companion, or two, or seven for that matter.”

 

And she laughs before she can contain it to her throat. And it’s ugly and stilted and true. And Podrick’s shoulders seem to relax before he’s smiling as her laughter smooths out.

 

“But more than seven and it would become inappropriate?” And he’s chuckling along with her. His eyes are crinkled and his head drops but not in shame this time.

 

“Would you suggest I choose a man from each of the Seven Kingdoms, to be just,” she giggles and she feels like her younger self. Despite the topic, the outrageousness of bedding several men, it isn’t dirty or calculated.

 

“I think it would be whatever you wished, my lady,” he says quieter, now but with laughter still coloring his words. Sansa grows quiet too.

 

“I think no matter what I wished, that wouldn’t be possible.” She knows she’s not ugly but she’s accepted many things. Like how she carries so much grief on her body that no one apart from her family wants to come close to her. That even if they wanted to, her duties came first. That despite being the owner of her own body, marriage and bedding were still in the realm of politics. “I feel that, no matter how I phrased it, it would come out as a mere command to be fulfilled,” she said lamely. Maybe they were finally familiar or maybe she was foolishly airing out her secrets to unsuspecting men.

 

“No man in the Seven Kingdoms would need to be commanded to your presence, Lady Sansa,” he spoke quickly after she had breathed her confession. And he wasn’t laughing anymore, but looking at her with a slightly pained expression. She doesn’t know what he is trying to say. And she could turn back towards the courtyard and ignore his assertion. She could quietly thank him and go about their duties. She’s not a coward and she’s not ready to kiss him but she’s tired of lines drawn for her.

 

“I wouldn’t even know what to say, I wouldn’t know how to ask a man into that kind of presence.” She doesn’t necessarily look away but she can’t look at his eyes for fear that he will discover her too soon. So, she looks at his face: his long hair that is only just held back by his ears, his thick eyebrows that give away his sentiments, and his full lips that are chapped because he’s still a Southerner. 

 

“Anything, you can say anything and they would trip themselves getting to you,” he almost sighs. And though Podrick has been at her eye level for a couple of years, she feels like he is looking up at her, in some sort of awe. She feels beautiful and bold and coy.

 

“Anything,” she smiles as her heart beats faster in her chest, “And if I were to ask this man to my private quarters, late at night, to discuss reconstruction of the hot springs? Would that be a good enough of an excuse? Do you think he would find it deceitful?”

 

She sees as his eyes grow wide, almost like he was in fear, but his breath stutters and almost stops. His mouth is opening and closing without saying a word, again, he’s having a hard time processing her words. She wasn’t very subtle and she wasn’t trying to be, but she wonders if maybe she shocked the gentle squire into confusion. Even so, she involuntarily steps closer to him. She smells the mint on his breath, warm on her face, as they come out short and quick. She can see the striations in his brown eyes and the way his pupils are bigger than before.

 

“Sansa,” he whispers and propriety be damned because her name sounds like honey on his lips.

 

“My lady,” begins a steady voice behind her. She knows it belongs to Lord Royce, already recovered from his bedrest. She turns towards him and her mask is back in place.

 

“Yes, Lord Royce,” and her voice sounds foreign to her. It’s disaffected and smooth.

 

“There is some halted progress on one of battlements to the west and we need your input on whether to move forward.”

 

Sansa nods before her feet automatically move towards Lord Royce. She doesn’t need to look back to know that Podrick, confused or not, is right behind her. Though she’s not entirely unhappy at the interruption, because her recklessness would get them both in trouble, she is flustered. She can’t help but smile a little when she hears Podrick stumble a bit on the icy ramparts, knowing that he too was left jolted by her confession. They find themselves climbing over loose rubble that requires him to not only steady her but guide her towards solid ground. And though she does not know his answer, she finds hope in the way his hands linger on her waist.

 ...

That night she reaches and falls over that evading precipice, thinking of his large hands and honeyed voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that I have yet to include the smut that I have promised, and it will be in the next chapter (I am in the middle of writing it, so for sure, you will get that). I do want you all to know that I am not anti-Dany, and I wish I could explore her a bit more. I think they reduced all of the women characters, and I wish I could expand on them all, but this story is really about expanding Sansa and even Arya, so it's going to read as if Dany is not a good queen because Sansa doesn't trust her. Anyway, thank you all!


	4. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forget how difficult smut actually is to write, but I present you with 3,000 words of mostly smut.

She is worried that it will be awkward, her half proposal left to sit in the air between them. But Podrick is anything but professional and respectful. That and with the movement of the troops to the South, their task to rebuild is only doubled. One would think having less men to feed and house would make her task easier, but there are less men to hunt and work. All of them wake early, before the sun, and don’t find their beds till late. There is hardly a moment to breath.

 

She is at her solar, sitting at her desk, having received a raven from Jon informing her of their impending arrival to Kings Landing. He sounds hopeful, all the men are in high spirits. She doesn’t let herself relax, the battle has already begun and she doesn’t know who will survive. He mentioned that the Kingslayer was found and being held, begging to let him convince his sister to surrender. He did not mention Arya. It feels strange knowing that despite the quickness of birds, it has been days since they have arrived. Bran speaks of living in the past, yet every time she reads these scrolls, she feels much the same.

 

Her head aches more each night and she thinks about taking some concoction to help her sleep, when there is a knock at her door. Though a late hour, she’s not surprised by someone at her door, these are times of war. What is surprising is who walks through the door after she calls them in. Podrick looks as he’s almost ready for bed, wearing a loose tunic he had hastily tucked into worn breeches. He wore his fur cloak, but his nose was red.

 

“My lady, sorry for my intrusion at such a late hour but your brother asked me to deliver a message,” his voice wavers a bit once he sees her. She’s always modestly dressed, even before retiring to her chambers. But her sleeping clothes and robe are thin and the fire in the hearth is bright.

 

She doesn’t have much time to think about it because she sees a scroll in his hand. And she panics immediately, thinking of Jon and Arya in the south, waiting to be eaten by lions and dragons. She must say his name as she’s standing up because Podrick shakes his head.

 

“Not from Jon,” he whispers before looking at the door and continuing, “Lady Stark, may I close the door?”

 

She nods, confused and walking from behind her desk, closer to him. What would Bran need in delivering her a message?

 

“Lord Bran asked me to deliver this and a message.” He holds out the scroll to her, and it’s small enough that their fingers brush against each other. They are both ready for bed and aren’t wearing gloves. This isn’t the first time their hands have touched but it’s been a while since she has actually felt his skin against hers. She chastises herself, whatever is occurring is serious enough that Podrick felt the need to close the door to other.

 

By his silence, she assumes she should read the scroll before he continues. She doesn’t know if her confusion or worry is winning over her body after she reads the message.

 

“Why would Bran send me message to prepare to ride south with as many troops as we can allow?” Her voice is deep for want of sleep.

 

Podrick answers, still whispering, “Lord Stark called Brienne and I to his solar through raven.” He shakes his head, at the absurdity of it all but continues, “he told us both that the Queen Danerys has burned down the capital.”

 

“How many,” asks Sansa without pause, she’s shocked but she has prepared for everything.

 

“We don’t know, many of the Lannister soldiers and a lot of civilians...”

 

Sansa can’t even answer. She steps closer to Podrick because it’s too late at night and she’s tired, she doesn’t know how much to can hold herself up. Before she can take a breath, Podrick speaks again.

 

“Lord Bran, he said, he says that Jon murdered the queen.”

 

And it is far too late and all she wanted was sleep, but she finds herself moving backwards towards her desk for support. She isn’t going to collapse but she needs a place to hold onto and she wasn’t about to plunge forward. Podrick seems to react, though, and moves toward her.

 

“Jon, is he, have they?”

 

She can’t finish it but Podrick quickly shakes his head. She lets out a breath but it’s shaky, she still feels like she’s underwater. She doesn’t want to ask, but her heart aches either way and she’s not a coward.

 

“Did he mention Arya?”

 

“She’s alive. A bit beat up but nothing major,” he whispers and he’s so close that she feels his breath against her cheek. And she wants to cry but they are alive, and they will stay alive by her will. She refuses to lose any of them again even if she has to drag them back from beyond the veil. She feels herself putting herself together again, gaining height from her sorrow. And that’s when she looks up and sees Podrick. His eyes are sad and his mouth is in a small pout. Unlike Jon’s broodiness, Podrick wears his heart on his sleeve in such a calming manner. His body looks a bit rigid and his hands almost held out from his torso. He looks a bit awkward, as if he was ready to embrace her before realizing the impropriety of such an action. But he’s still so close that she can see the dark circles under his eyes.

 

“Did he say anything else, Podrick” and now she’s whispering too.

 

He seems to hesitate but speaks, “About the scroll, before I left, he mentioned it was an excuse. He told me to tell you but I’m not sure what he meant.”

 

And he just trails off. She can feel her face begin to warm quickly and she wonders if Podrick has made the connection. She doesn’t know how to feel about her little brother seeming to encourage a completely inappropriate relationship. And she can only nod at Podrick’s confused face before turning towards her desk to reread the scroll. And this time, the silence does feel awkward and unnatural; they are both avoiding asking questions that hang in the air. She doesn’t know what’s going to happen, she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do now. Before she can say anything or even turn around, she hears movement. By the time she is facing him, Podrick is a within reach of the door, having backed up to it.

 

“I’ll take my leave, now, my lady,” he says, no longer whispering but voice still low, “Please sleep well.”

 

He turns away from her and she gains her courage.

 

“Please, wait,” she says with a voice that is breathy and high. She’s almost embarrassed by its desperation but he’s alone in her solar like she’s imagined these past couple of weeks. She walks towards him without waiting for his reaction. She doesn’t have a plan, which is probably why she is the one awkwardly standing close to him. She’s encourage by the breathy way he say’s _my lady_ , and places her hand on his forearm. His tunic is thin that she can feel the warmth of his skin and its strength as he tenses.

 

“I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what to ask,” her voice wavers, “but I’ll say anything to have you stay with me tonight.”

 

His breath hitches, she’s so close she can see him stop breathing and she’s not breathing either. The place she is touching him is growing hot and he’s still not saying anything. Her heart is in her throat and she feels like crying.

 

“You don’t have to say anything, my lady,” he finally answers, voice scratchy as his hand rotates so as to touch her forearm. And that’s all she needs to touch his cheek with her other hand and kiss him. And she’s pretty sure it’s chaste and definitely gentle. But she has always been kissed, never the one doing the kissing; it’s new and it ends too soon.

 

He’s just looking at her, adoring her again, before he’s kissing her. It takes her a moment to notice all that is happening, she’s still surprised that he is kissing her. His hands are cradling her face, warm against her cheeks as his lips move against hers. And before she knows it, his tongue is swiping at her bottom lip. She grabs on to his waist as she parts her lips, and she moans when he meets her tongue. She can feel them moving backwards, but she’s not sure as to where until she gently reaches her desk. One of his hands had already wrapped around her waist as to stop her from hitting the hard, wooden slab. They pause, foreheads touching as they take in ragged breaths. With the fire at her back and him to her front, she feels too warm for what she’s wearing. She begins to take off her robe, the flimsy silk fabric that was really only meant for decorum’s sake. Podrick holds on to one side of it at her shoulder, his thumb caressing her bare collar bone. He moves his head away from hers and takes a breath to speak. She’s worried for a moment, worried that he’ll stop or that he’ll question whatever is happening. She’s worried he’ll question her.

 

“Tell me if you don’t like something,” he breathes into her as he let’s go the robe, “tell me if you do like something.” And she doesn’t just nod but whispers _yes_ before pulling him towards her. And this time there is no chasteness in their kisses, but rather an intensity that seems to pull moans from deep within her. His tongue is licking into her mouth and she is clumsily returning the fervor. His hands are simultaneously caressing her back and holding her tighter to his body. She pulls back from their kiss only to take a breath, but Podrick is already on the move kissing down her cheek and moving towards her neck. And he’s lovingly kissing down her neck to where it meets her collar bone, when he begins to nip at her. She tenses a little bit and he stops his movements. He’s about to pull back, she can feel him move, but she holds his head against her neck.

 

“Please don’t stop,” and she pauses, scared to be plunged back into nightmares, “just don’t bite too hard, okay?”

 

She knows she’s holding him too tight against her, but she doesn’t want him to go, she doesn’t want to scare him with the scars she bears on her soul. That monster had bit her so hard, she bled for his amusement and now teeth were not only harmless bones in one’s mouth. Podrick seems to understand for he doesn’t pull away but moves closer to her, taking a deep breath of her before resuming his affections. And she’s slowly coming back to the present, especially with one of his warm hands gently settling over one of her breasts. She knows his hands are strong, she has seen him swing a sword and felt the roughness of them as they touched her back. His left hand is grasping at her waist, but his right only seeping warmth and no pressure. And maybe if it were someone else (which it would never be), she would find it annoying. But it’s Podrick and she feels herself smirk as she covers his hand and squeezes. He doesn’t grasp at her, but rather swipes his thumb till her nipples have hardened. She groans his name, aching for something she wouldn’t know how to put into words.

 

Podrick pulls down her nightgown strap to leave her partially exposed and quietly takes a nipple in his mouth. And maybe it isn’t just his cock that’s magic, but all of Podrick that’s magical in his ability to discover the mysteries of her body. She keels loudly and bucks her hips towards him. She would be embarrassed but her face is already hot and she feels his groan as he suckles her gently. And he’s moving to the other one when she decides that he is far too clothed for her to be bare from the waist up. She hastily grabs at his tunic, untucking it from his loose breeches, and pulling it over him. And he’s not completely unaware, but his elbow passes very closely to her nose and she has to arch her back to avoid it.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” he whispers, touching her face. Sansa laughs, a laugh that begins deep within her stomach and makes her feel light. He looked so worried and she’s being impatient – this feels perfect. He’s chuckling and smiling, the same sweet smile that she hasn’t seen directed much at her or anyone as of late. And she practically jumps into his arms to kiss him. And she can feel his chest on her, his thick hair brushing against her sensitive and soft body, but they are still laughing while kissing. And they are huffing too much air into each other’s mouths, but the continue to intensify their kisses. And she isn’t out of breath when she pulls away, but she needs to see and touch him. And she was right in imagining dark hair on his chest lightly creeping down his torso. His hair is coarse and there are fleshy scars all over him. She knows that many are new because they are still tinged in reds and pinks. They are different from the thin and pale scars she knows are on her body. And yet she can’t help but believe that perhaps their scars will line up as they embrace.

 

She’s not sure what to do with him, half naked in front of her. So, she runs her hands over him, taking notice the way he twitches as her hands brush over his nipples and as they caress the area right above his breeches. She decides to copy his movements and kiss her way down his neck and chest. He whispers her name over and over again – _Sansa, Sansa, oh, Sansa_ – in that voice that melts her heart and feels herself grow damp. She brushes over the bulge in his breeches, his magical cock she thinks to herself. Before she can grasp him, he laces his hand in hers and kisses her hard. When he starts to clumsily pull down the rest of her nightgown, she aids him in his quest, as well as removing her small clothes.

 

Despite the big hearth and her flushed body, she feels a chill in the air as he takes a step back from her. This isn’t the first time she’s been naked in front of a man but it is the first time she eagerly undressed herself. And it doesn’t stop her from feeling shy, the space between her thighs is also being cooled by the night.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” Podrick whispers, she thinks both their voices have been reduced to whispers, as his right hand moves from her hip to her thighs. She’s surprised by how her body quickly leans back against the desk and her thighs part. She is eager and needy. Podrick just slowly touches the inner, soft skin of her legs. He’s back to kissing her neck and her chest but his hand is frustratingly not much closer to where she wants it. It’s when the back of his hand lightly brushes the moistened thatch of hair of her cunt that she breaks.

 

“For the love of the gods, Podrick, please touch me,” she begs. And the way she’s clutching at his shoulders only add to the desperation in her voice. But she is not above begging him, she had begged him to stay and she will beg to couple with him. She remembers begging Ramsey to stop, which only spurred on his cruelty, so she stopped speaking. She remembers begging to the gods to make his sessions quick, but only in her mind; she learned to be quiet. But she is wet and taut; she has never been touched as such and she is no longer willing to wait. She expects her mind to go blank when he touches her, but everything seems to be illuminated. She feels his hot breath on her neck and the arm wrapped around her waist holds her tighter. She can feel him hard and pressed against her leg but she also feels the way he is tilting his hips away from her. Maybe he’s trying to not scare her, maybe he is trying to keep their attention to her, but all she wants is to melt against him. His hands are calloused, she can feel the rough ridges of his fingers as he sweeps them against her slit. And she sighs his name – _Podrick_ – in warning, but his fingers are already dipping into her. He is gentle in his movements but she is so deliciously sensitive she’s already moaning.

 

He goes straight to the upper portion of her, to the bundle of nerves she has come to know in the past few weeks (“It’s called a ‘clit’,” Arya had told her). And he stays there, touching her in different ways, trying to find what makes her moan the loudest. She expected him to be quiet, like he always is, except that he is whispering so many things in her ears. Mostly words encouraging her out of silence, _is that good_ and _you sound so beautiful_ , but he is also whispering other things. Things that are not necessarily filthy but make her feel wanton. He’s not some maid, but when he tells her, “only in my dreams did I ever hope to make you cum,” and she feels his lips moving against her ear, she bucks into his hand wanting more. All she can think is that _this is so much better_.

 

“Better than what,” he asks as his hand slow their pace. She hadn’t realized that she had spoken aloud and they both stare each other in confusion, hazy with passion. And she doesn’t think about lying, she doesn’t think about hiding herself from him.

 

“Better than just imagining you as I touched myself.”

 

He kisses her roughly, teeth almost clashing, and his fingers move to her opening, eliciting a gasp from her. He’s hovering a bit over her, teasing her again; she won’t have any of that. She covers his hand with hers and pressing two of his fingers into her. She hadn’t done too much of this and his fingers are thick, but she has never felt herself so open and slick.

 

He notices too, his voice rough, “Gods, you’re so wet, Sansa.” It should sound lewd to her, but it only makes her grab at his wrist and push him further into her. This seems to wake him up from the haziness and his fingers begin to move within her at a steady pace. He’s forehead is against her, almost kissing her lazily, as his thumb swipes against her clit and his fingers pumped into her. She had already been building up to the same precipice, so much quicker than she had before. She feels close, hot, as even their loud breathing and pants don’t cover up the sound of his fingers in her slickness. He can feel her new tension; he responds to it by adding a third finger into her and quickening the pace of his thumb. Her body accepts him so easily, so eagerly, and she finally understands the pleasurable stretch the maids around her would mention.

 

“Sansa,” Podrick says clearly, no longer whispering. That makes her open her eyes and stare at his deep brown eyes. She’s groaning loud enough that she hopes no one dares even to enter the hallway. She is breathing through her mouth as she moans, and she is so close. He reaches deep inside her to touch a soft place.

 

“My lady.”

 

She cries out, her head tilting back and eyes closing, as she plunges over the edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your reviews and comments are greatly appreciate. And this is not beta'd, so let me know if something is really off.


End file.
